The other day I was standing in the aisle o' razors at the store that I hate more than I hate lima beans.
In some twisted logic which can only be born of minimum wage, passive aggression and paternalistic logic, all of the Blades for the non-disposable razors had been taken away from the aisle. All that was left were disposable razors.
I stood. Befuddled and increasingly riled.
Finally, in my exasperation, I blurted out:
"Where the fuck are all the razor blades? Is this some conspiracy to deny the non-disposable razor users? Fuck me!"
Emily, who is (sadly) accustomed to these types of outbursts merely smiled to herself and resumed looking at things on shelves.
A not-unattractive gentleman of approximately my age began to laugh. I looked over at him, unaccustomed to others finding my lack of social graces to be amusing.
He smiles at me. I now have an audience.
I smile back, and begin to gesture to the shelves -now barren of real blades.
"Where have they gone? This makes no sense!", I finally end.
He makes some small talk and explains that he has seen them towards the front of the store, near the registers. Ok. I acknowledge. That is an incredibly asinine place to locate razor blades, but I will go look there.
Emily trails behind me.
"That dude was totally crushing on you, Mom."
I stop short. "what!?"
I am shocked, people. SHOCKED.
"It was a conversation about razor blades....", I say.
"Oh no, he liked you.", explains my daughter.
"Emily", I say. "I look ridiculous. Comic book tshirt - jean shorts three sizes too big, toenails that really need a new pedicure and my hair looks like birds are nesting in it. Yelling Fuck Me! in the razor aisle. I think you are insane."
We get to the razor display. Fuck me! again!
How am I supposed to know what type of razor I own among this ocean of razor options? It is a razor. I put a blade on it and use it until my legs scream for mercy whereby I clue in that I am shaving with the equivalent of a butter knife.
As I stand shaking my head in exasperation at the ludicrous display, the man from before walks over. He makes more small talk. I respond. I make a choice and walk away.
Emily smiles at me.
"See", she says, "he likes you - even though it is totally creepy to see someone crushing on my mother."
In some twisted logic which can only be born of minimum wage, passive aggression and paternalistic logic, all of the Blades for the non-disposable razors had been taken away from the aisle. All that was left were disposable razors.
I stood. Befuddled and increasingly riled.
Finally, in my exasperation, I blurted out:
"Where the fuck are all the razor blades? Is this some conspiracy to deny the non-disposable razor users? Fuck me!"
Emily, who is (sadly) accustomed to these types of outbursts merely smiled to herself and resumed looking at things on shelves.
A not-unattractive gentleman of approximately my age began to laugh. I looked over at him, unaccustomed to others finding my lack of social graces to be amusing.
He smiles at me. I now have an audience.
I smile back, and begin to gesture to the shelves -now barren of real blades.
"Where have they gone? This makes no sense!", I finally end.
He makes some small talk and explains that he has seen them towards the front of the store, near the registers. Ok. I acknowledge. That is an incredibly asinine place to locate razor blades, but I will go look there.
Emily trails behind me.
"That dude was totally crushing on you, Mom."
I stop short. "what!?"
I am shocked, people. SHOCKED.
"It was a conversation about razor blades....", I say.
"Oh no, he liked you.", explains my daughter.
"Emily", I say. "I look ridiculous. Comic book tshirt - jean shorts three sizes too big, toenails that really need a new pedicure and my hair looks like birds are nesting in it. Yelling Fuck Me! in the razor aisle. I think you are insane."
We get to the razor display. Fuck me! again!
How am I supposed to know what type of razor I own among this ocean of razor options? It is a razor. I put a blade on it and use it until my legs scream for mercy whereby I clue in that I am shaving with the equivalent of a butter knife.
As I stand shaking my head in exasperation at the ludicrous display, the man from before walks over. He makes more small talk. I respond. I make a choice and walk away.
Emily smiles at me.
"See", she says, "he likes you - even though it is totally creepy to see someone crushing on my mother."
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